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WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

A STORY OF 2000 A.D. 

(TOGETHER WITH EXTRACTS FROM THE CONTEMPORARY 
MAGAZINE IN WHICH IT APPEARED) 



BOOKS BY RUDYARD KIPLING 



BRUSHWOOD Bov, THE 
CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS 
COLLECTED VERSE 
DAY'S WORK, THE 

DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES 
AND BALLADS AND BAR- 
RACK-ROOM BALLADS 

FIVE NATIONS, THE 
JUNGLE BOOK, THE 
JUNGLE BOOK, SECOND 
JUST So SONG BOOK 
JUST So STORIES 
KIM 

KIPLING BIRTHDAY BOOK, 
THE 

LIFE'S HANDICAP ; Being 
Stories of Mine Own 
People 



LIGHT THAT FAILED, THE 
MANY INVENTIONS 
NAULAHKA, THE (With 

Wolcott Balestier) 
PLAIN TALES FROM THE 

HILLS 

PUCK OF POOR'S HILL 
SEA TO SEA, FROM 
SEVEN SEAS, THE 
SOLDIER STORIES 

SOLDIERS THREE, THE 
STORY OF THE GADSBYS, 
and IN BLACK AND WHITE 
STALKY & Co. 
THEY 
TRAFFICS AND DISCOVERIES 

UNDER THE DEODARS, 
THE PHANTOM 'RICK- 
SHAW and WEE WILLIE 
WINKIE 




**A MAN WITH A GHASTLY SCARLET HEAD FOLLOWS, 
SHOUTING THAT HE MUST GO BACK AND BUILD UP 
HIS RAY." 



With the Night 



A STORY OF 2000 A.D 

(TOGETHER WITH EXTRACTS FROM THE CONTEMPORARY 
MAGAZINE IN WHICH IT APPEARED ) 

BY 
RUDYARD KIPLING 

Illustrated in Color 

BY FRANK X. LEYENDECKER 
AND H. REUTERDAHL 





NEW YORK 

Doubleday, Page & Company 
1909 




ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OP TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 



COPYRIGHT, 1905, IQOg, BY RUDYARD KIPLING 
PUBLISHED, MARCH, 1909 



REPRINTED IN BOOK FORM BY PERMISSION OF 
THE S. S. McCLURE COMPANY 




ILLUSTRATIONS 

"A man with a ghastly scarlet head 
follows, shouting that he must go 
back and build up his Ray" Frontispiece 

FOLLOWING PAGK 

" Slides like a lost soul down that 
pitiless ladder of light, and the 
Atlantic takes her " . . .31 

The Storm 39 

" I Ve asked him to tea on Friday " . 58 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

A STORY OP 3000 A.D. 



With the Night Mail 

A T NINE o* clock of a gusty winter night 
I stood on the lower stages of one of 
the G. P. O. outward mail towers. My 
purpose was a run to Quebec in "Postal 
Packet 162 or such other as may be 
appointed": and the Postmaster-General 
himself countersigned the order. This 
talisman opened all doors, even those in 
the despatching-caisson at the foot of the 
tower, where they were delivering the sorted 
Continental mail. The bags lay packed 
close as herrings in the long gray under- 
bodies which our G. P. O. still calls 
"coaches." Five such coaches were filled 
as I watched, and were shot up the 
guides to be locked on to their waiting 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

packets three hundred feet nearer the 
stars. 

From the despatching-caisson I was con- 
ducted by a courteous and wonderfully 
learned official Mr. L. L. Geary, Second 
Despatcher of the Western Route to the 
Captains' Room (this wakes an echo of old 
romance), where the mail captains come 
on for their turn of duty. He introduces 
me to the Captain of "162" Captain 
Purnall, and his relief, Captain Hodgson. 
The one is small and dark; the other large 
and red ; but each has the brooding sheathed 
glance characteristic of eagles and aero- 
nauts. You can see it in the pictures of our 
racing professionals, from L. V. Rautsch 
to little Ada Warrleigh that fathomless 
abstraction of eyes habitually turned 
through naked space. 

On the notice-board in the Captains' 
Room, the pulsing arrows of some twenty 
[4] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

indicators register, degree by geographical 
degree, the progress of as many homeward- 
bound packets. The word "Cape" rises 
across the face of a dial; a gong strikes: 
the South African mid- weekly mail is in at 
the Highgate Receiving Towers. That is 
all. It reminds one comically of the 
traitorous little bell which in pigeon- 
fanciers' lofts notifies the return of a homer. 

"Time for us to be on the move," says 
Captain Purnall, and we are shot up by the 
passenger-lift to the top of the despatch- 
towers. "Our coach will lock on when it 
is filled and the clerks are aboard." . . . 

"No. 162" waits for us in Slip E of the 
topmost stage. The great curve of her 
back shines frostily under the lights, and 
some minute alteration of trim makes her 
rock a little in her holding-down slips. 

Captain Purnall frowns and dives inside. 
Hissing softly, "162" comes to rest as level 

[5] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

as a rule. From her North Atlantic Winter 
nose-cap (worn bright as diamond with 
boring through uncounted leagues of hail, 
snow, and ice) to the inset of her three 
built-out propeller-shafts is some two hun- 
dred and forty feet. Her extreme diameter, 
carried well forward, is thirty-seven. Con- 
trast this with the nine hundred by ninety- 
five of any crack liner and you will realize 
the power that must drive a hull through 
all weathers at more than the emergency- 
speed of the "Cyclonic"! 

The eye detects no joint in her skin 
plating save the sweeping hair-crack of 
the bow-rudder Magniac's rudder that 
assured us the dominion of the unstable air 
and left its inventor penniless and half- 
blind. It is calculated to Castelli's "gull- 
wing" curve. Raise a few feet of that all 
but invisible plate three-eighths of an inch 
and she will yaw five miles to port or star- 
[6] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

board ere she is under control again. Give 
her full helm and she returns on her track 
like a whip-lash. Cant the whole for- 
ward a touch on the wheel will suffice 
and she sweeps at your good direction 
up or down. Open the complete circle 
and she presents to the air a mushroom- 
head that will bring her up all standing 
within a half mile. 

"Yes," says Captain Hodgson, answer- 
ing my thought, "Castelli thought he 'd dis- 
covered the secret of controlling aeroplanes 
when he 'd only found out how to steer 
dirigible balloons. Magniac invented his 
rudder to help war-boats ram each other; 
and war went out of fashion and Magniac 
he went out of his mind because he said 
he could n't serve his country any more. 
I wonder if any of us ever know what 
we 're really doing." 

"If you want to see the coach locked 
[7] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

you 'd better go aboard. It 's due now," 
says Mr. Geary. I enter through the door 
amidships. There is nothing here for dis- 
play. The inner skin of the gas-tanks 
comes down to within a foot or two of my 
head and turns over just short of the turn 
of the bilges. Liners and yachts disguise 
their tanks with decoration, but the G. P. O. 
serves them raw under a lick of gray official 
paint. The inner skin shuts off fifty feet 
of the bow and as much of the stern, but 
the bow-bulkhead is recessed for the lift- 
shunting apparatus as the stern is pierced 
for the shaft-tunnels. The engine-room lies 
almost amidships. Forward of it, extend- 
ing to the turn of the bow tanks, is an 
aperture a bottomless hatch at present 
into which our coach will be locked. 
One looks down over the coamings three 
hundred feet to the despatching-caisson 
whence voices boom upward. The light 
[8] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

below is obscured to a sound of thunder, 
as our coach rises on its guides. It enlarges 
rapidly from a postage-stamp to a playing- 
card; to a punt and last a pontoon. The 
two clerks, its crew, do not even look up as 
it comes into place. The Quebec letters 
fly under their fingers and leap into the 
docketed racks, while both captains and 
Mr. Geary satisfy themselves that the coach 
is locked home. A clerk passes the way- 
bill over the hatch-coaming. Captain 
Purnall thumb-marks and passes it to Mr. 
Geary. Receipt has been given and taken. 
"Pleasant run," says Mr. Geary, and dis- 
appears through the door which a foot- 
high pneumatic compressor locks after 
him. 

"A-ah!" sighs the compressor released. 
Our holding-down clips part with a tang. 
We are clear. 

Captain Hodgson opens the great colloid 

[9] 



underbody-porthole through which I watch 
million-lighted London slide eastward as 
the gale gets hold of us. The first of the 
low winter clouds cuts off the well-known 
view and darkens Middlesex. On the 
south edge of it I can see a postal packet's 
light ploughing through the white fleece. 
For an instant she gleams like a star ere 
she drops toward the Highgate Receiving 
Towers. "The Bombay Mail," says 
Captain Hodgson, and looks at his watch. 
" She's forty minutes late." 

"What's our level?" I ask. 

"Four thousand. Aren't you coming 
up on the bridge ?" 

The bridge (let us ever bless the G. P. O. 
as a repository of ancientest tradition!) 
is represented by a view of Captain 
Hodgson's legs where he stands on the 
control platform that runs thwartships 
overhead. The bow colloid is unshuttered 
[10] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

and Captain Purnall, one hand on the 
wheel, is feeling for a fair slant. The 
dial shows 4,300 feet. 

"It's steep to-night," he mutters, as 
tier on tier of cloud drops under. "We 
generally pick up an easterly draught 
below three thousand at this time o* the 
year. I hate slathering through fluff.'* 

"So does Van Cutsem. Look at him 
huntin' for a slant!" says Captain Hodgson. 
A fog-light breaks cloud a hundred fathoms 
below. The Antwerp Night Mail makes 
her signal and rises between two racing 
clouds far to port, her flanks blood-red in 
the glare of Sheerness Double Light. The 
gale will have us over the North Sea 
in half an hour, but Captain Purnall lets 
her go composedly nosing to every point 
of the compass as she rises. 

"Five thousand six, six thousand eight 
hundred" the dip-dial reads ere we find 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

the easterly drift, heralded by a flurry of 
snow at the thousand-fathom level. Cap- 
tain Purnall rings up the engines and keys 
down the governor on the switch before him. 
There is no sense in urging machinery when 
^Eolus himself gives you good knots for 
nothing. We are away in earnest now 
our nose notched home on our chosen star. 
At this level the lower clouds are laid out 
all neatly combed by the dry fingers of the 
East. Below that again is the strong 
westerly blow through which we rose. 
Overhead, a film of southerly drifting mist 
draws a theatrical gauze across the firma- 
ment. The moonlight turns the lower 
strata to silver without a stain except where 
our shadow underruns us. Bristol and Car- 
diff Double Lights (those statelily inclined 
beams over Severnmouth) are dead ahead 
of us; for we keep the Southern Winter 
Route. Coventry Central, the pivot of the 
[12] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

English system, stabs upward once in ten 
seconds its spear of diamond light to the 
north ; and a point or two off our starboard 
bow The Leek, the great cloud-breaker of 
Saint David's Head, swings its unmistak- 
able green beam twenty-five degrees each 
way. There must be half a mile of fluff 
over it in this weather, but it does not affect 
The Leek. 

"Our planet's overlighted if anything," 
says Captain Purnall at the wheel, as 
Cardiff-Bristol slides under. "I remember 
the old days of common white verticals 
that 'ud show two or three thousand feet 
up in a mist, if you knew where to look for 
'em. In really fluffy weather they might 
as well have been under your hat. One 
could get lost coming home then, an* have 
some fun. Now, it 's like driving down 
Piccadilly." 

He points to the pillars of light where the 
[13] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

cloud-breakers bore through the cloud- 
floor. We see nothing of England's out- 
lines: only a white pavement pierced in all 
directions by these manholes of variously 
coloured fire Holy Island's white and 
red St. Bee's interrupted white, and so 
on as far as the eye can reach. Blessed 
be Sargent, Ahrens, and the Dubois 
brothers, who invented the cloud-breakers 
of the world whereby we travel in security! 
"Are you going to lift for The Sham- 
rock?" asks Captain Hodgson. Cork 
Light (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to 
it. Captain Purnall nods. There is heavy 
traffic hereabouts the cloud-bank beneath 
us is streaked with running fissures of flame 
where the Atlantic boats are hurrying 
Londonward just clear of the fluff. Mail- 
packets are supposed, under the Conference 
rules, to have the five-thousand-foot lanes 
to themselves, but the foreigner in a hurry 

[it] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

is apt to take liberties with English air. 
"No. 162" lifts to a long-drawn wail of the 
breeze in the fore-flange of the rudder and 
we make Valencia (white, green, white) 
at a safe 7,000 feet, dipping our beam to an 
incoming Washington packet. 

There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and 
faint streaks of cream round Dingle Bay show 
where the driven seas hammer the coast. A 
big S. A. T. A. liner (Socieie Anonyme des 
Transports Aeriens) is diving and lifting 
half a mile below us in search of some break 
in the solid west wind. Lower still lies a 
disabled Dane: she is telling the liner all 
about it in International. Our General 
Communication dial has caught her talk 
and begins to eavesdrop. Captain Hodg- 
son makes a motion to shut it off but checks 
himself. " Perhaps you 'd like to listen/* he 
says. 

"'ArgoP of St. Thomas," the Dane 
[15] 




WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

whimpers. " Report owners three starboard 
shaft collar-bearings fused. Can make 
Flores as we are, but impossible further. 
Shall we buy spares at Fayal?" 

The liner acknowledges and recommends 
inverting the bearings. The "Argol" 
answers that she has already done so with- 
out effect, and begins to relieve her mind 
about cheap German enamels for collar- 
bearings. The Frenchman assents cordially, 
cries ** Courage, mon ami," and switches off. 

Their lights sink under the curve of the 
ocean. 

" That's one of Lundt & Bleamers's 
boats," says Captain Hodgson. "Serves 
'em right for putting German compos in 
their thrust-blocks. She won't be in Fayal 
to-night! By the way, wouldn't you like 
to look round the engine-room?" 

I have been waiting eagerly for this invi- 
tation and I follow Captain Hodgson from 
[16] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

the control-platform, stooping low to avoid 
the bulge of the tanks. We know that 
Fleury's gas can lift anything, as the world- 
famous trials of '89 showed, but its almost 
indefinite powers of expansion necessitate 
vast tank room. Even in this thin air the 
lift-shunts are busy taking out one-third of 
its normal lift, and still "162" must be 
checked by an occasional downdraw of the 
rudder or our flight would become a climb 
to the stars. Captain Purnall prefers an 
overlif ted to an underlif ted ship ; but no two 
captains trim ship alike. "When I take 
the bridge," says Captain Hodgson, "you '11 
see me shunt forty per cent, of the lift out of 
the gas and run her on the upper rudder. 
With a swoop upwards instead of a swoop 
downwards, as you say. Either way will do. 
It 's only habit. Watch our dip-dial ! Tim 
fetches her down once every thirty knots as 
regularly as breathing." 
[17] 



So is it shown on the dip-dial. For five 
or six minutes the arrow creeps from 6,700 
to 7,300. There is the faint "szgee" of the 
rudder, and back slides the arrow to 6,500 on 
a falling slant of ten or fifteen knots. 

"In heavy weather you jockey her with 
the screws as well," says Captain Hodgson, 
and, unclipping the jointed bar which di- 
vides the engine-room from the bare deck, 
he leads me on to the floor. 

Here we find Fleury's Paradox of the 
Bulkheaded Vacuum which we accept 
now without thought literally in full blast. 
The three engines are H. T. &. T. assisted- 
vacuo Fleury turbines running from 3,000 
to the Limit that is to say, up to the 
point when the blades make the air "bell" 
cut out a vacuum for themselves pre- 
cisely as over-driven marine propellers used 
to do. " 162's" Limit is low on account of the 
small size of her nine screws, which, though 
[18] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

handier than the old colloid Thelussons, 
' * bell*' sooner. The midships engine, gener- 
ally used as a reinforce, is not running ; so 
the port and starboard turbine vacuum- 
chambers draw direct into the return-mains. 
The turbines whistle reflectively. From 
the low-arched expansion-tanks on either 
side the valves descend pillarwise to the 
turbine-chests, and thence the obedient gas 
whirls through the spirals of blades with 
a force that would whip the teeth out of a 
power-saw. Behind, is its own pressure 
held in leash or spurred on by the lift- 
shunts; before it, the vacuum where Fleury's 
Ray dances in violet-green bands and 
whirled turbillions of flame. The jointed 
U-tubes of the vacuum-chamber are 
pressure-tempered colloid (no glass would 
endure the strain for an instant) and a junior 
engineer with tinted spectacles watches the 
Ray intently. It is the very heart of the 

[ 19 ] 




WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

machine a mystery to this day. Even 
Fleury who begat it and, unlike Magniac, 
died a multi-millionaire, could not explain 
how the restless little imp shuddering in the 
U-tube can, in the fractional fraction of a 
second, strike the furious blast of gas 
into a chill grayish-green liquid that drains 
(you can hear it trickle) from the far end 
of the vacuum through the eduction- pipes 
and the mains back to the bilges. Here it 
returns to its gaseous, one had almost 
written sagacious, state and climbs to work 
afresh. Bilge-tank, upper tank, dorsal- 
tank, expansion-chamber, vacuum, main- 
return (as a liquid), and bilge-tank once 
more is the ordained cycle. Fleury' s Ray 
sees to that ; and the engineer with the tinted 
spectacles sees to Fleury' s Ray. If a speck 
of oil, if even the natural grease of the 
human finger touch the hooded terminals 
Fleury' s Ray will wink and disappear and 
[20] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

must be laboriously built up again. This 
means half a day's work for all hands and an 
expense of one hundred and seventy-odd 
pounds to the G. P. O. for radium-salts and 
such trifles. 

"Now look at our thrust-collars. You 
won't find much German compo there. 
Full- jewelled, you see," says Captain Hodg- 
son as the engineer shunts open the top of a 
cap. Our shaft-bearings are C. M. C. (Com- 
mercial Minerals Company) stones, ground 
with as much care as the lens of a telescope. 
They cost 37 apiece. So far we have not 
arrived at their term of life. These bear- 
ings came from "No. 97," which took them 
over from the old "Dominion of Light," 
which had them out of the wreck of the 
"Perseus" aeroplane in the years when men 
still flew linen kites over thorium engines! 

They are a shining reproof to all low-grade 
German "ruby" enamels, so-called "boort" 
[21] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

facings, and the dangerous and unsatis- 
factory alumina compounds which please 
dividend-hunting owners and turn skippers 
crazy. 

The rudder-gear and the gas lift-shunt, 
seated side by side under the engine-room 
dials, are the only machines in visible mo- 
tion. The former sighs from time to time 
as the oil plunger rises and falls half an inch. 
The latter, cased and guarded like the 
U-tube aft, exhibits another Fleury Ray, 
but inverted and more green than violet. 
Its function is to shunt the lift out of the 
gas, and this it will do without watching. 
That is all! A tiny pump-rod wheezing 
and whining to itself beside a sputtering 
green lamp. A hundred and fifty feet aft 
down the flat-topped tunnel of the tanks a 
violet light, restless and irresolute. Between 
the two, three white-painted turbine-trunks, 
like eel-baskets laid on their side, accentuate 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

the empty perspectives. You can hear the 
trickle of the liquefied gas flowing from the 
vacuum into the bilge-tanks and the soft 
gluck-glock of gas-locks closing as Captain 
Purnall brings "162" down by the head. 
The hum of the turbines and the boom of 
the air on our skin is no more than a cotton- 
wool wrapping to the universal stillness. 
And we are running an eighteen-second mile. 

I peer from the fore end of the engine- 
room over the hatch-coamings into the coach. 
The mail-clerks are sorting the Winnipeg, 
Calgary, and Medicine Hat bags: but there 
is a pack of cards ready on the table. 

Suddenly a bell thrills ; the engineers run 
to the turbine- valves and stand by; but 
the spectacled slave of the Ray in the 
U-tube never lifts his head. He must watch 
where he is. We are hard-braked and go- 
ing astern; there is language from the 
control-platform. 

[23] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

" Tim's sparking badly about something," 
says the unruffled Captain Hodgson. " Let's 
look." 

Captain Purnall is not the suave man we 
left half an hour since, but the embodied 
authority of the G. P. O. Ahead of us floats 
an ancient, aluminum-patched, twin-screw 
tramp of the dingiest, with no more right to 
the 5,000 foot lane than has a horse-cart to 
a modern town. She carries an obsolete 
"barbette" conning-tower a six-foot affair 
with railed platform forward and our 
warning beam plays on the top of it as a 
policeman's lantern flashes on the area 
sneak. Like a sneak-thief, too, emerges a 
shock-headed navigator in his shirt-sleeves. 
Captain Purnall wrenches open the colloid to 
talk with him man to man. There are 
times when Science does not satisfy. 

"What under the stars are you doing 
here, you sky-scraping chimney-sweep?" 
[24] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

he shouts as we two drift side by side. "Do 
you know this is a Mail- lane ? You call 
yourself a sailor, sir? You ain't fit to 
peddle toy balloons to an Esquimaux. Your 
name and number! Report and get down, 
and be !" 

"I've been blown up once," the shock- 
headed man cries, hoarsely, as a dog barking. 
"I don't care two flips of a contact for 
anything you can do, Postey." 

"Don't you, sir? But I'll make you 
care. I '11 have you towed stern first to 
Disko and broke up. You can't recover 
insurance if you 're broke for obstruction. 
Do you understand that?" 

Then the stranger bellows: "Look at my 
propellers! There 's been a wulli-wa down 
under that has knocked us into umbrella- 
frames! We 've been blown up about forty 
thousand feet! We're all one conjuror's 
watch inside ! My mate' s arm ' s broke ; my 
[25] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

engineer's head's cut open; my Ray went 
out when the engines smashed ; and . 
and . . . for pity's sake give me my 
height, Captain ! We doubt we 're drop- 
ping." 

"Six thousand eight hundred. Can you 
hold it?" Captain Purnall overlooks all in- 
sults, and leans half out of the colloid, 
staring and snuffing. The stranger leaks 
pungently. 

"We ought to blow into St. John's 
with luck. We 're trying to plug the fore- 
tank now, but she 's simply whistling it 
away," her captain wails. 

"She 's sinking like a log," says Captain 
Purnall in an undertone. "Call up the 
Banks Mark Boat, George." Our dip-dial 
shows that we, keeping abreast the tramp, 
have dropped five hundred feet the last few 
minutes. 

Captain Purnall presses a switch and our 
[26] 



signal beam begins to swing through the 
night, twizzling spokes of light across 
infinity. 

"That '11 fetch something," he says, while 
CaptainHodgson watches the General Com- 
municator. He has called up the North 
Banks Mark Boat, a few hundred miles 
west, and is reporting the case. 

"I'll stand by you," Captain Purnall roars 
to the lone figure on the conning-tower. 

"Is it as bad as that ?" comes the answer. 
"She isn't insured, she's mine." 

" 'Might have guessed as much," mutters 
Hodgson. "Owner's risk is the worst risk 
of all!" 

" Can't I fetch St. John's not even 
with this breeze?" the voice quavers. 

" Stand by to abandon ship. Have n't 
you any lift in you, fore or aft ?" 

"Nothing but the midship tanks and 
they 're none too tight. You see, my Ray 
[27] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

gave out and " he coughs in the reek of 
the escaping gas. 

"You poor devil!" This does not reach 
our friend. "What does the Mark Boat 
say, George?" 

'Wants to know if there 's any danger to 
traffic. Says she 's in a bit of weather her- 
self and can't quit station. I 've turned in a 
General Call, so even if they don't see our 
beam some one 's bound to help or else we 
must. Shall I clear our slings: Hold on! 
Here we are! A Planet liner, too! She '11 
be up in a tick!" 

"Tell her to have her slings ready," cries 
his brother captain. "There won't be 
much time to spare . . . Tie up your 
mate," he roars to the tramp. 

" My mate 's all right. It 's my engineer. 
He 's gone crazy." 

" Shunt the lift out of him with a spanner. 
Hurry!" 

[28] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

"But I can make St. John's if you'll 
stand by." 

"You'll make the deep, wet Atlantic 
in twenty minutes. You 're less than fifty- 
eight hundred now. Get your papers." 

A Planet liner, east bound, heaves up 
in a superb spiral and takes the air of us 
humming. Her underbody colloid is open 
and her transporter-slings hang down like 
tentacles. We shut off our beam as she 
adjusts herself steering to a hair over 
the tramp's conning-tower. The mate 
comes up, his arm strapped to his side, and 
stumbles into the cradle. A man with a 
ghastly scarlet head follows, shouting that 
he must go back and build up his Ray. 
The mate assures him that he will find a nice 
new Ray all ready in the liner's engine-room. 
The bandaged head goes up wagging ex- 
citedly. A youth and a woman follow. 
The liner cheers hollowly above us, and 
[29] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

we see the passenger's faces at the saloon 
colloid. 

"That's a good girl. What's the fool 
waiting for now?" says Captain Purnall. 

The skipper comes up, still appealing to us 
to stand by and see him fetch St. John's. 
He dives below and returns at which we 
little human beings in the void cheer louder 
than ever with the ship's kitten. Up 
fly the liner's hissing slings; her under- 
body crashes home and she hurtles away 
again. The dial shows less than 3,000 feet. 

The Mark Boat signals we must at- 
tend to the derelict, now whistling her death 
song, as she falls beneath us in long sick 
zigzags. 

"Keep our beam on her and send out a 
General Warning," says Captain Purnall, 
following her down. 

There is no need. Not a liner in air 
but knows the meaning of that vertical 
[30] 




SLIDES LIKE A LOST SOUL DOWN THAT PITILESS 
LADDER OF LIGHT, AND THE ATLANTIC TAKES 
HER " 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

beam and gives us and our quarry a 
wide berth. 

"But she'll drown in the water, won't 
she?" I ask. 

"Not always," is his answer. "I've 
known a derelict up-end and sift her 
engines out of herself and flicker round 
the Lower Lanes for three weeks on her 
forward tanks only. We '11 run no risks. 
Pith her, George, and look sharp. There 's 
weather ahead." 

Captain Hodgson opens the underbody 
colloid, swings the heavy pithing-iron out 
of its rack which in liners is generally 
cased as a settee, and at two hundred 
feet releases the catch. We hear the whir 
of the crescent-shaped arms opening as 
they descend. The derelict's forehead is 
punched in, starred across, and rent 
diagonally. She falls stern first, our beam 
upon her; slides like a lost soul down 
[31] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

that pitiless ladder of light, and the At- 
lantic takes her. 

"A filthy business," says Hodgson. "I 
wonder what it must have been like in the 
old days." 

The thought had crossed my mind too. 
What if that wavering carcass had been 
filled with International-speaking men of all 
the Internationalities, each one of them 
taught (that is the horror of it!) that after 
death he would very possibly go forever to 
unspeakable torment? 

And not half a century since, we (one 
knows now that we are only our fathers re- 
enlarged upon the earth), we, I say, ripped 
and rammed and pithed to admiration. 

Here Tim, from the control-platform, 
shouts that we are to get into our inflators 
and to bring him his at once. 

We hurry into the heavy rubber suits 
and the engineers are already dressed and 
[32] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

inflate at the air-pump taps. G. P. O. in- 
flators are thrice as thick as a racing man's 
"flickers," and chafe abominably under the 
armpits. George takes the wheel until 
Tim has blown himself up to the extreme 
of rotundity. If you kicked him off the c. p. 
to the deck he would bounce back. But it 
is "162" that will do the kicking. 

"The Mark Boat's mad stark ravin' 
crazy," he snorts, returning to command. 
" She says there 's a bad blow-out ahead and 
wants me to pull over to Greenland. I '11 see 
her pithed first! We wasted an hour and a 
quarter over that dead duck down under, and 
now I 'm expected to go rubbin' my back all 
round the Pole. What does she think a 
postal packet 's made of ? Gummed silk ? 
Tell her we're coming on straight, George." 

George buckles him into the Frame and 
switches on the Direct Control. Now un- 
der Tim's left toe lies the port-engine Ac- 
[33] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

celerator; under his left heel the Reverse, 
and so with the other foot. The lift-shunt 
stops stand out on the rim of the steering- 
wheel where the fingers of his left hand can 
play on them. At his right hand is the mid- 
ships engine lever ready to be thrown into 
gear at a moment's notice. He leans for- 
ward in his belt, eyes glued to the colloid, 
and one ear cocked toward the General 
Communicator. Henceforth he is the 
strength and direction of "162," through 
whatever may befall. 

The Banks Mark Boat is reeling out pages 
of A. B. C. Directions to the traffic at 
large. We are to secure all " loose objects" ; 
hood up our Fleury Rays; and "on no ac- 
count to attempt to clear snow from our 
conning- towers till the weather abates." 
Under-powered craft, we are told, can ascend 
to the limit of their lift, mail-packets to 
look out for them accordingly; the lower 
[34] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

lanes westward are pitting very badly, 
"with frequent blow-outs, vortices, later- 
als, etc." 

Still the clear dark holds up unblemished. 
The only warning is the electric skin-tension 
(I feel as though I were a lace-maker's pil- 
low) and an irritability which the gibbering 
of the General Communicator increases 
almost to hysteria. 

We have made eight thousand feet since 
we pithed the tramp and our turbines are 
giving us an honest two hundred and ten 
knots. 

Very far to the west an elongated blur 
of red, low down, shows us the North Banks 
Mark Boat. There are specks of fire round 
her rising and falling bewildered planets 
about an unstable sun helpless shipping 
hanging on to her light for company's sake. 
No wonder she could not quit station. 

She warns us to look out for the back- 

[35] 




WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

wash of the bad vortex in which (her beam 
shows it) she is even now reeling. 

The pits of gloom about us begin to fill 
with very faintly luminous films wreath- 
ing and uneasy shapes. One forms itself 
into a globe of pale flame that waits shivering 
with eagerness till we sweep by. It leaps 
monstrously across the blackness, alights on 
the precise tip of our nose, pirouettes there 
an instant, and swings off. Our roaring 
bow sinks as though that light were lead 
sinks and recovers to lurch and stumble 
again beneath the next blow-out. Tim's 
fingers on the lift-shunt strike chords of 
numbers 1:4: 7: 2: 4: 6: 7: 5:3, and 
so on; for he is running by his tanks only, 
lifting or lowering her against the uneasy 
air. All three engines are at work, for the 
sooner we have skated over this thin ice the 
better. Higher we dare not go. The whole 
upper vault is charged with pale krypton 
[36] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

vapours, which our skin friction may excite 
to unholy manifestations. Between the 
upper and the lower levels 5,000, and 
7,000, hints the Mark Boat we may per- 
haps bolt through if ... Our bow 
clothes itself in blue flame and falls like 
a sword. No human skill can keep pace 
with the changing tensions. A vortex has 
us by the beak and we dive down a two- 
thousand-foot slant at an angle (the dip-dial 
and my bouncing body record it) of thirty- 
five. Our turbines scream shrilly; the pro- 
pellers cannot bite on the thin air; Tim 
shunts the lift out of five tanks at once and 
by sheer weight drives her bulletwise 
through the maelstrom till she cushions 
with a jar on an up-gust, three thousand 
feet below. 

" Now we 've done it,'* says George in my 
ear. "Our skin-friction that last slide, has 
played Old Harry with the tensions ! Look 
[37] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

out for laterals, Tim, she '11 want some 
holding." 

"I've got her," is the answer. "Come 
up y old woman." 

She comes up nobly, but the laterals buf- 
fet her left and right like the pinions of an- 
gry angels. She is jolted off her course 
in four ways at once, and cuffed into 
place again, only to be swung aside and 
dropped into a new chaos. We are 
never without a corposant grinning on 
our bows or rolling head over heels from 
nose to midships, and to the crackle of 
electricity around and within us is added 
once or twice the rattle of hail hail that 
will never fall on any sea. Slow we must 
or we may break our back, pitch-poling. 

"Air's a perfectly elastic fluid," roars 
George above the tumult. "About as elastic 
as a head sea off the Fastnet, aint it ?" 

He is less than just to the good element 
[38] 




THE STORM 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

If one intrudes on the Heavens when they 
are balancing their volt-accounts ; if one dis- 
turbs the High Gods' market-rates by hurl- 
ing steel hulls at ninety knots across tremb- 
lingly adjusted electric tensions, one must not 
complain of any rudeness in the reception. 
Tim met it with an unmoved countenance, 
one corner of his under lip caught up on a 
tooth, his eyes fleeting into the blackness 
twenty miles ahead, and the fierce sparks 
flying from his knuckles at every turn of the 
hand. Now and again he shook his head 
to clear the sweat trickling from his eye- 
brows, and it was then that George, watch- 
ing his chance, would slide down the life- 
rail and swab his face quickly with a big 
red handkerchief. I never imagined that 
a human being could so continuously labour 
and so collectedly think as did Tim through 
that Hell's half hour when the flurry was at 
its worst. We were dragged hither and 
[39] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

yon by warm or frozen suctions, belched up 
on the tops of wulli-was, spun down by 
vortices and clubbed aside by laterals under 
a dizzying rush of stars in the company of a 
drunken moon. I heard the rushing click 
of the midship-engine-lever sliding in and 
out, the low growl of the lift-shunts, and, 
louder than the yelling winds without, the 
scream of the bow-rudder gouging into any 
lull that promised hold for an instant. At 
last we began to claw up on a cant, bow- 
rudder and port-propeller together; only 
the nicest balancing of tanks saved us 
from spinning like the rifle-bullet of the 
old days. 

* We 've got to hitch to windward of that 
Mark Boat somehow," George cried. 

"There 's no windward," I protested 
feebly, where I swung shackled to a 
stanchion. "How can there be?" 

He laughed as we pitched into a thou- 
[40] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

sand foot blow-out that red man laughed 
beneath his inflated hood! 

"Look!" he said. "We must clear those 
refugees with a high lift." 

The Mark Boat was below and a little to 
the sou* west of us, fluctuating in the centre 
of her distraught galaxy. The air was thick 
with moving lights at every level. I take 
it most of them were trying to lie head to wind 
but, not being hydras, they failed. An under- 
tanked Moghrabi boat had risen to the limit 
of her lift and, finding no improvement, had 
dropped a couple of thousand. There she 
met a superb wulli-wa and was blown up 
spinning like a dead leaf. Instead of shut- 
ing off she went astern and, naturally, re- 
bounded as from a wall almost into the Mark 
Boat, whose language (our G. C. took it in) 
was humanly simple. 

"If they 'd only ride it out quietly it 'ud 
be better," said George in a calm, as we 
[41] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

climbed like a bat above them all. "But 
some skippers will navigate without enough 
lift. What does that Tad-boat think she is 
doing, Tim?" 

"Play in' kiss in the ring," was Tim's un- 
moved reply. A Trans- Asiatic Direct liner 
had found a smooth and butted into it full 
power. But there was a vortex at the tail 
of that smooth, so the T. A. D. was flipped 
out like a pea from off a fingernail, braking 
madly as she fled down and all but over- 
ending. 

"Now I hope she 's satisfied," said Tim. 
"I 'm glad I 'm not a Mark Boat . . . 
Do I want help?" The C. G. dial had 
caught his ear. "George, you may tell that 
gentleman with my love love, remember, 
George that I do not want help. Who 
is the officious sardine- tin ?" 

"ARimouski drogher on the lookout for 
a tow." 

[42] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

"Very kind of the Rimouski drogher. 
This postal packet is n't being towed at 
present." 

"Those droghers will go anywhere on a 
chance of salvage, ' George explained. !< We 
call 'em kittiwakes." 

A long-beaked, bright steel ninety-footer 
floated at ease for one instant within hail of 
us, her slings coiled ready for rescues, and a 
single hand in her open tower. He was 
smoking. Surrendered to the insurrection 
of the airs through which we tore our way, 
he lay in absolute peace. I saw the smoke of 
his pipe ascend untroubled ere his boat 
dropped, it seemed, like a stone in a well. 

We had just cleared the Mark Boat and 
her disorderly neighbours when the storm 
ended as suddenly as it had begun. A shoot- 
ing-star to northward filled the sky with 
the green blink of a meteorite dissipating 
itself in our atmosphere. 
[43] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

Said George: "That may iron out all the 
tensions." Even as he spoke, the conflict- 
ing winds came to rest; the levels filled; the 
laterals died out in long easy swells ; the air- 
ways were smoothed before us. In less than 
three minutes the covey round the Mark 
Boat had shipped their power-lights and 
whirred away upon their businesses. 

" What 's happened?" I gasped. The 
nerve-storm within and the volt-tingle with- 
out had passed: my inflators weighed like 
lead. 

"God, He knows!" said Captain George, 
soberly. "That old shooting-star's skin- 
friction has discharged the different levels. 
I 've seen it happen before. Phew! What 
a relief!" 

We dropped from ten to six thousand 

and got rid of our clammy suits. Tim shut 

off and stepped out of the Frame. The 

Mark Boat was coming up behind us. He 

[44] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

opened the colloid in that heavenly stillness 
and mopped his face. 

"Hello, Williams!" he cried. "A degree 
or two out o' station, ain't you ?" 

"May be," was the answer from the 
Mark Boat. "I've had some company 
this evening." 

" So I noticed. Was n't that quite a little 
draught?" 

"I warned you. Why didn't you pull 
out round by Disko ? The east-bound 
packets have." 

" Me ? Not till I 'm running a Polar con- 
sumptives' Sanatorium boat. I was squint- 
ing through a colloid before you were out of 
your cradle, my son." 

"I'd be the last man to deny it," the 
captain of the Mark Boat replies softly. 
"The way you handled her just now 
I 'm a pretty fair judge of traffic in 
a volt-flurry it was a thousand revo- 
[45] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

lutions beyond anything even I 've ever 
seen." 

Tim's back supples visibly to this oiling. 
Captain George on the c. p. winks and points 
to the portrait of a singularly attractive 
maiden pinned up on Tim's telescope- 
bracket above the steering-wheel. 

I see. Wholly and entirely do I see! 

There is some talk overhead of "coming 
round to tea on Friday," a brief report of 
the derelict's fate, and Tim volunteers as he 
descends: "For an A. B. C. man young 
Williams is less of a high-tension fool 
than some . . . Were you thinking of 
taking her on, George ? Then I '11 just 
have a look round that port-thrust 
seems to me it 's a trifle warm and we '11 
jog along." 

The Mark Boat hums off joyously and 
hangs herself up in her appointed eyrie. 
Here she will stay, a shutterless obser- 
[46] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

vatory; a life-boat station; a salvage tug; 
a court of ultimate appeal-cum-meteor- 
ologicai bureau for three hundred miles in 
all directions, till Wednesday next when her 
relief sKdes across the stars to take her buf- 
feted place. Her black hull, double con- 
ning-tower, and ever-ready slings represent 
all that remains to the planet of that odd old 
word authority. She is responsible only to 
the Aerial Board of Control the A. B. C. 
of which Tim speaks so flippantly. But 
that semi-elected, semi-nominated body of a 
few score persons of both sexes, controls this 
planet. "Transportation is Civilization," 
our motto runs. Theoretically, we do what 
we please so long as we do not interfere with 
the traffic and all it implies. Practically, the 
A. B. C. confirms or annuls all international 
arrangements and, to judge from its last re- 
port, finds our tolerant, humorous, lazy 
little planet only too ready to shift the whole 
[47] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

burden of private administration on its 
shoulders. 

I discuss this with Tim, sipping mate on 
the c. p. while George fans her along over 
the white blur of the Banks in beautiful 
upward curves of fifty miles each. The 
dip-dial translates them on the tape in flow- 
ing freehand. 

Tim gathers up a skein of it and surveys 
the last few feet, which record " 162 V path 
through the volt-flurry. 

"I have n't had a fever-chart like this to 
show up in five years," he says ruefully. 

A postal packet's dip-dial records every 
yard of every run. The tapes then go to 
the A. B. C., which collates and makes 
composite photographs of them for the 
instruction of captains. Tim studies his 
irrevocable past, shaking his head. 

" Hello! Here's a fifteen-hundred-foot 
drop at eighty-five degrees! We must 
[48] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

have been standing on our heads then, 
George." 

* * You don' t say so, " George answers. * * I 
fancied I noticed it at the time." 

George may not have Captain Purnall's 
catlike swiftness, but he is all an artist to the 
tips of the broad fingers that play on the 
shunt-stops. The delicious flight-curves 
come away on the tape with never a waver. 
The Mark Boat's vertical spindle of light 
lies down to eastward, setting in the face of 
the following stars. Westward, where no 
planet should rise, the triple verticals of 
Trinity Bay (we keep still to the South- 
ern route) make a low- lifting haze. We 
seem the only thing at rest under all the 
heavens; floating at ease till the earth's 
revolution shall turn up our landing- 
towers. 

And minute by minute our silent clock 
gives us a sixteen-second mile. 
[49] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

" Some fine night," says Tim. " We '11 be 
even with that clock's Master." 

"He's coming now," says George, over 
his shoulder. "I'm chasing the night 
west" 

The stars ahead dim no more than if a 
film of mist had been drawn under unob- 
served, but the deep air-boom on our skin 
changes to a joyful shout. 

"The dawn-gust," says Tim. "It'll 
go on to meet the Sun. Look ! Look ! 
There's the dark being crammed back over 
our bow! Come to the after-colloid. I'll 
show you something. 

The engine-room is hot and stuffy; the 
clerks in the coach are asleep, and the Slave 
of the Ray is near to follow them. Tim 
slides open the aft colloid and reveals the 
curve of the world the ocean's deepest 
purple edged with fuming and intolerable 
gold. Then the Sun rises and through the 
[50] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

colloid strikes out our lamps. Tim scowls 
in his face. 

"Squirrels in a cage," he mutters. 
"That's all we are. Squirrels in a cage! 
He 's going twice as fast as us. Just you 
wait a few years, my shining friend and 
we '11 take steps that will amaze you. We'll 
Joshua you!" 

Yes, that is our dream: to turn all earth 
into the Vale of Ajalon at our pleasure. So 
far, we can drag out the dawn to twice its 
normal length in these latitudes. But some 
day even on the Equator we shall hold 
the Sun level in his full stride. 

Now we look down on a sea thronged with 
heavy traffic. A big submersible breaks 
water suddenly. Another and another 
follow with a swash and a suck and a 
savage bubbling of relieved pressures. 
The deep-sea freighters are rising to lung 
up after the long night, and the leisurely 
[51] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

ocean is all patterned with peacock's eyes 
of foam. 

" We '11 lung up, too," says Tim, and when 
we return to the c. p. George shuts off, the 
colloids are opened, and the fresh air sweeps 
her out. There is no hurry. The old con- 
tracts (they will be revised at the end of the 
year) allow twelve hours for a run which any 
packet can put behind her in ten. So we 
breakfast in the arms of an easterly slant 
which pushes us along at a languid twenty. 

To enjoy life, and tobacco, begin both on 
a sunny morning half a mile or so above the 
dappled Atlantic cloud-belts and after a 
volt-flurry which has cleared and tempered 
your nerves. While we discussed the thick- 
ening traffic with the superiority that comes 
of having a high level reserved to ourselves, 
we heard (and I for the first time) the 
morning hymn on a Hospital boat. 

She was cloaked by a skein of ravelled fluff 
[52] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

beneath us and we caught the chant before 
she rose into the sunlight. " Oh, ye Winds 
of God," sang the unseen voices: "bless ye 
the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him 
forever!" 

We slid off our caps and joined in. When 
our shadow fell across her great open plat- 
forms they looked up and stretched out their 
hands neighbourly while they sang. We 
could see the doctors and the nurses and the 
white-button-like faces of the cot-patients. 
She passed slowly beneath us, heading 
northward, her hull, wet with the dews of 
the night, all ablaze in the sunshine. So 
took she the shadow of a cloud and vanished, 
her song continuing. Oh, ye holy and 
humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord! 
Praise Him and magnify Him forever. 

"She's a public lunger or she wouldn't 
have been singing the Benedicite\ and she 's 
a Greenlander or she would n't have snow- 
[53] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

blinds over her colloids," said George at 
last. "She'll be bound for Frederikshavn 
or one of the Glacier sanatoriums for a 
month. If she was an accident ward she 'd 
be hung up at the eight-thousand-foot level. 
Yes consumptives." 

"Funny how the new things are the old 
things. I 've read in books," Tim answered, 
"that savages used to haul their sick and 
wounded up to the tops of hills because mi- 
crobes were fewer there. We hoist 'em into 
sterilized air for a while. Same idea. How 
much do the doctors say we 've added to 
the average life of a man ?" 

"Thirty years," says George with a 
twinkle in his eye. "Are we going to spend 
'em all up here, Tim?" 

"Flap along, then. Flap along. Who 's 
hindering?" the senior captain laughed, as 
we went in. 

We held a good lift to clear the coastwise 
[54] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

and Continental shipping ; and we had need 
of it. Though our route is in no sense a 
populated one, there is a steady trickle of 
traffic this way along. We met Hudson 
Bay furriers out of the Great Preserve, 
hurrying to make their departure from 
Bonavista with sable and black fox for the 
insatiable markets. We over-crossed Kee- 
watin liners, small and cramped; but their 
captains, who see no land between Trepassy 
and Blanco, know what gold they bring 
back from West Africa. Trans- Asiatic 
Directs, we met, soberly ringing the world 
round the Fiftieth Meridian at an honest 
seventy knots; and white-painted Ackroyd 
& Hunt fruiters out of the south fled 
beneath us, their ventilated hulls whistling 
like Chinese kites. Their market is in the 
North among the northern sanatoria where 
you can smell their grapefruit and bananas 
across the cold snows. Argentine beef 
[55] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

boats we sighted too, of enormous capacity 
and unlovely outline. They, too, feed the 
northern health stations in ice-bound ports 
where submersibles dare not rise. 

Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava 
petrol-tanks punted down leisurely out of 
the north like strings of unfrightened wild 
duck. It does not pay to "fly" minerals 
and oil a mile farther than is necessary ; but 
the risks of transhipping to submersibles in 
the ice-pack off Nain or Hebron are so great 
that these heavy freighters fly down to Hali- 
fax direct, and scent the air as they go. 
They are the biggest tramps aloft except 
the Athabasca grain-tubs. But these last, 
now that the wheat is moved, are busy, 
over the world's shoulder, timber-lifting in 
Siberia. 

We held to the St. Lawrence (it is astonish- 
ing how the old water-ways still pull us 
children of the air), and followed his broad 
[56] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

line of black between its drifting ice blocks, 
all down the Park that the wisdom of 
our fathers but every one knows the 
Quebec run. 

We dropped to the Heights Receiving 
Towers twenty minutes ahead of time and 
there hung at ease till the Yokohama In- 
termediate Packet could pull out and give 
us our proper slip. It was curious to watch 
the action of the holding-down clips all along 
the frosty river front as the boats cleared or 
came to rest. A big Hamburger was leav- 
ing Pont Levis and her crew, unshipping the 
platform railings, began to sing "Elsinore" 
the oldest of our chanteys. You know 
it of course: 

Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic 
Forty couple waltzing on the floorl 

And you can watch my Ray, 

For I must go away 

And dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinorel 

[57] 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

Then, while they sweated home the cover- 
ing-plates : 

Nor-Nor-Nor-Nor- 
West from Sourabaya to the Baltic 

Ninety knot an hour to the Skawl 
Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic 

And a dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinorel 

The clips parted with a gesture of indig- 
nant dismissal, as though Quebec, glittering 
under her snows, were casting out these light 
and unworthy lovers. Our signal came 
from the Heights. Tim turned and floated 
up, but surely then it was with passion- 
ate appeal that the great tower arms flung 
open or did I think so because on the 
upper staging a little hooded figure also 
opened her arms wide towards her father ? 
* * * 

In ten seconds the coach with its clerks 
clashed down to the receiving-caisson; the 
hostlers displaced the engineers at the idle 
[58] 




"I'VE ASKKD HIM TO TEA ON FRIDAY 3 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL 

turbines, and Tim, prouder of this than all, 
introduced me to the maiden of the photo- 
graph on the shelf. "And by the way," 
said he to her, stepping forth in sunshine 
under the hat of civil life, "I saw young 
Williams in the Mark Boat. I 've asked 
him to tea on Friday. ' 



[59] 



c> 


Aerial 


Board 


of 


Control 


Lights 



No changes in English Inland lights for week ending 

Dec. 18. 

PLANETARY COASTAL LIGHTS. Week ending Dec. 18. 
Verde inclined guide-light changes from 1st proximo 
to triple flash green white green in place of 
occulting red as heretofore. The warning light 
for Harmattan winds will be continuous vertical 
glare (white) on all oases of trans-Saharan N. E. 
by E. Main Routes. 

INVERCARGIL (N. Z.) From 1st prox. : extreme southerly 
light (double red) will exhibit white beam inclined 
45 degrees on approach of Southerly Buster. Traffic 
flies high off this coast between April and October. 

TABLE BAY Devil's Peak Glare removed to Simonsberg. 
Traffic making Table Mountain coastwise keep all 
lights from Three Anchor Bay at least five shipping 
hundred feet under, and do not round to till beyond 
E. shoulder Devil's Peak. 

SANDHEADS LIGHT Green triple vertical marks new 
private landing-stage for Bay and Burma traffic only. 

SNAEFELL JOKUL White occulting light withdrawn 
for winter. 

PATAGONIA No summer light south C. Pilar. This 
includes Staten Island and Port Stanley. 

C. NAVARIN Quadruple fog flash (white), one minute 
intervals (new). 

[61] 



AERIAL BOARD OF CONTROL 



EAST CAPE Fog flash single white with single bomb. 

30 sec. intervals (new). 

MALAYAN ARCHIPELAGO lights unreliable owing erup- 
tions. Lay from Somerset to Singapore direct, 
keeping highest levels. 

For the Board: 

CATTERTHUN } 

ST. JUST > Lights. 

VAN HEDDER ) 

Casualties 

Week ending Dec. 18th. 

SABLE ISLAND LANDING TOWERS Green freighter, 

number indistinguishable, up-ended, and fore-tank 

pierced after collision, passed 300-ft. level 2 P.M. 

Dec. 15th. Watched to water and pithed by Mark 

Boat. 
N. F. BANKS Postal Packet 162 reports Halma freighter 

(Fowey St. John's) abandoned, leaking after 

weather, 46 15" N. 50 15' W. Crew rescued by 

Planet liner Asteroid. Watched to water and pithed 

by postal packet, Dec. 14th. 
KERGUELEN MARK BOAT reports last call from Cymena 

freighter (Gayer Tong-Huk & Co.) taking water 

and sinking in snow-storm. South McDonald Islands. 

No wreckage recovered. Addresses, etc., of crew at 

all A. B. C. offices. 
FEZZAN T. A. D. freighter Ulema taken ground during 

Hannattan on Akakus Range. Under plates strained. 

Crew at Ghat where repairing Dec. 13th. 
BISCAY, MARK BOAT reports Carducci (Valandingham 

line) slightly spiked in western gorge Point de 

[62] 



AERIAL BOARD OF CONTROL 



Benasque. Passengers transferred Andorra (same 
line). Barcelona Mark Boat salving cargo Dec. 12th. 
ASCENSION, MARK BOAT Wreck of unknown racing- 
plane, Parden rudder, wire-stiffened xylonite vans, and 
Harliss engine-seating, sighted and salved 7 20' S. 
18 41' W. Dec. 15th. Photos at all A. B. C. offices. 

Missing 

No answer to General Call having been received during 
the last week from following overdues, they are posted 
as missing. 

Atlantis, W. 17630 Canton- Valparaiso 

Audhumla, W. 809 Stockholm-Odessa 

Berenice, W. 2206 Riga-Vladivostock 

Draco, E. 446 Coventry-Puntas Arenas 

Tontine, E. 3068 C. Wrath-Ungava 

Wu-Sung, E. 41776 Hankow-Lobito Bay 

General Call (all Mark Boats) out for: 

Jane Eyre, W. 6990 .... Port Rupert-City of Mexico 
Santander, W. 5514 .... Gobi-desert-Manila 
V. Edmundsun, E. 9690 . . . Kandahar-Fiume 

Broke for Obstruction, and Quitting Levels 

VALKYRIE (racing plane), A. J. Hartley owner, New York 

(twice warned). 
GEISHA (racing plane), S. van Cott owner, Philadelphia 

(twice warned). 

MARVEL OP PERU (racing plane), J. X. Peixoto owner, 
Rio de Janeiro (twice warned). 
For the Board: 

LAZAREFF ^ 
McKEOUGH > Traffic. 

GOLDBLATT ) 

[63] 



NOTES 




Notes 



High-Level Sleet 

The Northern weather so far shows no sign of im- 
provement. From all quarters come complaints of the 
unusual prevalence of sleet at the higher levels. Racing- 
planes and digs alike have suffered severely the former 
from unequal deposits of half-frozen slush on their vans 
(and only those who have "held up" a badly balanced plane 
in a cross wind know what that means), and the latter 
from loaded bows and snow-cased bodies. As a con- 
sequence, the Northern and Northwestern upper levels 
have been practically abandoned, and the high fliers 
have returned to the ignoble security of the Three, 
Five, and Six hundred foot levels. But there remain a 
few undaunted sun-hunters who, in spite of frozen stays 
and ice-jammed connecting-rods, still haunt the blue 
empyrean. 

Bat-Boat Racing 

The scandals of the past few years have at last moved 
the yachting world to concerted action in regard to " bat" 
boat racing. 

We have been treated to the spectacle of what are 
practically keeled racing-planes driven a clear five foot or 
more above the water, and only eased down to touch 
their so-called "native element" as they near the line. 
Judges and starters have been conveniently blind to this 
absurdity, but the public demonstration off St. Catherine's 
Light at the Autumn Regattas has borne ample, if tardy, 

[65] 



NOTES 



fruit. In future the " bat " is to be a boat, and the long- 
unheeded demand of the true sportsman for "no daylight 
under mid-keel in smooth water" is in a fair way to be 
conceded. The new rule severely restricts plane area 
and lift alike. The gas compartments are permitted both 
fore and aft, as in the old type, but the water-ballast central 
tank is rendered obligatory. These things work, if not 
for perfection, at least for the evolution of a sane and 
wholesome waterborne cruiser. The type of rudder is 
unaffected by the new rules, so we may expect to see the 
Long-Davidson make (the patent on which has just 
expired) come largely into use henceforward, though the 
strain on the sternpost in turning at speeds over forty 
miles an hour is admittedly very severe. But bat-boat 
racing has a great future before it. 



[66] 



CORRESPONDENCE 



Correspondence 



Skylarking on the Equator 

To THE EDITOR Only last week, while crossing the 
Equator (W. 26.15), I became aware of a furious and 
irregular cannonading some fifteen or twenty knots 
S. 4 E. Descending to the 500 ft. level, I found a party 
of Transylvanian tourists engaged in exploding scores of 
the largest pattern atmospheric bombs (A. B. C. standard) 
and, in the intervals of their pleasing labours, firing bow 
and stern smoke-ring swivels. This orgie I can give it 
no other name went on for at least two hours, and natur- 
ally produced violent electric derangements. My com- 
passes, of course, were thrown out, my bow was struck 
twice, and I received two brisk shocks from the lower 
platform-rail. On remonstrating, I was told that these 
" professors " were engaged in scientific experiments. 
The extent of their " scientific " knowledge may be 
judged by the fact that they expected to produce (I give 
their own words) " a little blue sky " if " they went on 
long enough." This in the heart of the Doldrums at 
450 feet ! I have no objection to any amount of blue 
sky in its proper place (it can be found at the 2,000 level 
for practically twelve months out of the year), but I 
submit, with all deference to the educational needs of 
Transylvania, that "sky-larking" in the centre of a main- 
travelled road where, at the best of times, electricity liter- 
ally drips off one's stanchions and screw blades, is unnec- 
essary. When ray friends had finished, the road was seared, 
and blown, and pitted with unequal pressure-layers, spirals, 

[68] 



CORRESPONDENCE 



vortices, and readjustments for at least an hour. I 
pitched badly twice in an upward rush solely due to 
these diabolical throw-downs that came near to wrecking 
my propeller. Equatorial work at low levels is trying 
enough in all conscience without the added terrors of 
scientific hooliganism in the Doldrums. 

Rhyl. J.VINCENT MATHEWS. 

[We entirely sympathize with Professor Mathews's views, 
but unluckily till the Board sees fit to further regulate 
the Southern areas in which scientific experiments may 
be conducted, we shall always be exposed to the risk 
which our correspondent describes. Unfortunately, a 
chimera bombinating in a vacuum is, nowadays, only 
too capable of producing secondary causes. Editor.] 

Answers to Correspondents 

VIGILANS The Laws of Auroral Derangements are 
still imperfectly understood. Any overheated motor 
may of course "seize" without warning; but so many 
complaints have reached us of accidents similar to yours 
while shooting the Aurora that we are inclined to believe 
with Lavalle that the upper strata of the Aurora Borealis 
are practically one big electric "leak," and that the paral- 
ysis of your engines was due to complete magnetization 
of all metallic parts. Low-flying planes often "glue up" 
when near the Magnetic Pole, and there is no reason in 
science why the same disability should not be experienced 
at higher levels when the Auroras are "delivering" strongly. 

INDIGNANT On your own showing, you were not 
under control. That you could not hoist the necessary 
N. U. C. lights on approaching a traffic-lane because your 
electrics had short-circuited is a misfortune which might 
befall any one. The A. B. C M being responsible for the 

[69] 



CORRESPONDENCE 



planet's traffic, cannot, however, make allowance for this 
kind of misfortune. A reference to the Code will show 
that you were fined on the lower scale. 

PLANISTON (1) The Five Thousand Kilometre (over- 
land) was won last year by L. V. Rautsch, R. M. Rautsch, 
his brother, in the same week pulling off the Ten Thousand 
(oversea). R. M.'s average worked out at a fraction over 
500 kilometres per hour, thus constituting a record. (2) 
Theoretically, there is no limit to the lift of a dirigible. 
For commercial and practical purposes 15,000 tons is 
accepted as the most manageable. 

PATERFAMILIAS None whatever. He is liable for 
direct damage both to your chimneys and any collateral 
damage caused by fall of bricks into garden, etc., etc. 
Bodily inconvenience and mental anguish may be included, 
but the average jury are not, as a rule, men of sentiment. 
If you can prove that his grapnel removed any portion 
of your roof, you had better rest your case on decover- 
ture of domicile (See Parkins v. Duboulay). We entirely 
sympathize with your position, but the night of the 14th 
was stormy and confused, and you may have to anchor 
on a stranger's chimney yourself some night. Verbum sap! 

ALDEBABAN War, as a paying concern, ceased in 
1967. (2) The Convention of London expressly reserves 
to every nation the right of waging war so long as it does 
not interfere with the world's traffic. (3) The A. B. C. 
was constituted in 1949. 

L. M. D. Keep her dead head-on at half -power, taking 
advantage of the lulls to speed up and creep into it. She 
will strain much less this way than in quartering across a 
gale. (2) Nothing is to be gained by reversing into a fol- 
lowing gale, and there is always risk of a turn-over. (3) 
The formulae for stun'sle brakes are uniformly unreliable, 
and will continue to be so as long as air is compressible. 

[70] 



CORRESPONDENCE 



PEGAMOID Personally we prefer glass or flux com- 
pounds to any other material for winter work nose-caps 
as being absolutely non-hygroscopic. (2) We cannot 
recommend any particular make. 

PULMONAR For the symptoms you describe, try the 
Gobi Desert Sanitaria. The low levels of the Saharan 
Sanitaria are against them except at the outset of the 
disease. (2) We do not recommend boarding-houses or 
hotels in this column. 

BEGINNER On still days the air above a large inhab- 
ited city being slightly warmer i. e., thinner than the 
atmosphere of the surrounding country, a plane drops a 
little on entering the rarefied area, precisely as a ship 
sinks a little in fresh water. Hence the phenomena of 
"jolt" and your "inexplicable collisions" with factory 
chimneys. In air, as on earth, it is safest to fly high. 

EMERGENCY There is only one rule of the road in air, 
earth,and water. Do you want the firmament to yourself ? 

PICCIOLA Both Poles have been overdone in Art 
and Literature. Leave them to Science for the next 
twenty years. You did not send a stamp with your verses. 

NORTH NIGERIA The Mark Boat was within her right 
in warning you up on the Reserve. The shadow of a 
low-flying dirigible scares the game. You can buy all 
the photos you need at Sokoto. 

NEW ERA It is not etiquette to overcross an A. B. C. 
official's boat without asking permission. He is one of 
the body responsible for the planet's traffic, and for that 
reason must not be interfered with. You, presumably, 
are out on your own business or pleasure, and should 
leave him alone. For humanity's sake don't try to be 
"democratic." 



[71] 



REVIEWS 



Reviews 

The Life of Xavier Lavalle 

(Reviewed by Rene Talland. Ecole Aeronautique, Paris) 

TEN years ago Lavalle, "that imperturbable dreamer of 
the heavens, " as Lazareff hailed him, gathered together 
the fruits of a lifetime's labour, and gave it, with well- 
justified contempt, to a world bound hand and foot to 
Barald's Theory of Vertices and "compensating electric 
nodes." "They shall see," he wrote in that immortal 
postscript to "The Heart of the Cyclone" "the Laws 
whose existence they derided written in fire beneath them." 

"But even here," he continues, "there is no finality. 
Better a thousand times my conclusions should be dis- 
credited than that my dead name should lie across the 
threshold of the temple of Science a bar to further 
inquiry." 

So died Lavalle a prince of the Powers of the Air, 
and even at his funeral Cellier jested at "him who had 
gone to discover the secrets of the Aurora Borealis." 

If I choose thus to be banal, it is only to remind you that 
Cellier's theories are to-day as exploded as the ludicrous 
deductions of the Spanish school. In the place of their 
fugitive and warring dreams we have, definitely, Lavalle's 
Law of the Cyclone which he surprised in darkness and 
cold at the foot of the overarching throne of the Aurora 
Borealis. It is there that I, intent on my own investiga- 
tions, have passed and re-passed a hundred times the 
worn leonine face, white as the snow beneath him, furrowed 

[73] 



REVIEWS 



with wrinkles like the seams and gashes upon the North 
Cape; the nervous hand, integrally a part of the mechanism 
of his flighter; and above all, the wonderful lambent eyes 
turned to the zenith. 

"Master," I would cry as I moved respectfully beneath 
him, "what is it you seek to-day ?" and always the answer, 
clear and without doubt, from above: "The old secret, 
my son!" 

The immense egotism of youth forced me on my own 
path, but (cry of the human always !) had I known if I 
had known I would many times have bartered my poor 
laurels for the privilege, such as Tinsley and Herrera pos- 
sess, of having aided him in his monumental researches. 

It is to the filial piety of Victor Lavalle that we owe the 
two volumes consecrated to the ground-life of his father, 
so full of the holy intimacies of the domestic hearth. 
Once returned from the abysms of the utter North to that 
little house upon the outskirts of Meudon, it was not the 
philosopher, the daring observer, the man of iron energy 
that imposed himself on his family, but a fat and even 
plaintive jester, a farceur incarnate and kindly, the co-equal 
of his children, and, it must be written, not seldom the 
comic despair of Madame Lavalle, who, as she writes five 
years after the marriage, to her venerable mother, found 
"in this unequalled intellect whose name I bear the 
abandon of a large and very untidy boy." Here is her 
letter: 

"Xavier returned from I do not know where at mid- 
night, absorbed in calculations on the eternal question of 
his Aurora la belle Aurore, whom I begin to hate. 
Instead of anchoring I had set out the guide-light above 
our roof, so he had but to descend and fasten the plane 
he wandered, profoundly distracted, above the town with 

[74] 



REVIEWS 



his anchor down! Figure to yourself, dear mother, it 
is the roof of the mayor's house that the grapnel first 
engages! That I do not regret, for the mayor's wife and 
I are not sympathetic; but when Xavier uproots my pet 
araucaria and bears it across the garden into the con- 
servatory I protest at the top of my voice. Little Victor 
in his night-clothes runs to the window, enormously amused 
at the parabolic flight without reason, for it is too dark to 
see the grapnel, of my prized tree. The Mayor of Meudon 
thunders at our door in the name of the Law, demanding, 
I suppose, my husband's head. Here is the conversation 
through the megaphone Xavier is two hundred feet 
above us. 

"'Mons. Lavalle, descend and make reparation for out- 
rage of domicile. Descend, Mons. Lavalle!' 

"No one answers. 

"'Xavier Lavalle, in the name of the Law, descend and 
submit to process for outrage of domicile.' 

"Xavier, roused from his calculations, only compre- 
hending the last words : ' Outrage of domicile ? My dear 
mayor, who is the man that has corrupted thy Julie ? ' 

"The mayor, furious, 'Xavier Lavalle ' 

"Xavier, interrupting: 'I have not that felicity. lam 
only a dealer in cyclones!' 

"My faith, he raised one then! All Meudon attended 
in the streets, and my Xavier, after a long time compre- 
hending what he had done, excused himself in a thousand 
apologies. At last the reconciliation was effected in our 
house over a supper at two in the morning Julie in a 
wonderful costume of compromises, and I hare her and 
the mayor pacified in beds in the blue room." 

And on the next day, while the mayor rebuilds his roof, 
her Xavier departs anew for the Aurora Borealis, there 

[75] 



to commence his life's work. M. Victor Lavalle tells us 
of that historic collision {en plane) on the flank of Hecla 
between Herrera, then a pillar of the Spanish school, and 
the man destined to confute his theories and lead him 
intellectually captive. Even through the years, the 
immense laugh of Lavalle as he sustains the Spaniard's 
wrecked plane, and cries: "Courage! I shall not fall 
till I have found Truth, and I hold you fast!" rings like the 
call of trumpets. This is that Lavalle whom the world, 
immersed in speculations of immediate gain, did not know 
nor suspect the Lavalle whom they adjudged to the last a 
pedant and a theorist. 

The human, as apart from the scientific, side (developed 
in his own volumes) of his epoch-making discoveries is 
marked with a simplicity, clarity, and good sense beyond 
praise. I would specially refer such as doubt the sustain- 
ing influence of ancestral faith upon character and will 
to the eleventh and nineteenth chapters, in which are con- 
tained the opening and consummation of the Tellurionical 
Records extending over nine years. Of their tremendous 
significance be sure that the modest house at Meudon 
knew as little as that the Records would one day be the 
world's standard in all official meteorology. It was enough 
for them that their Xavier this son, this father, 
this husband ascended periodically to commune with 
powers, it might be angelic, beyond their comprehension, 
and that they united daily in prayers for his safety. 

"Pray for me," he says upon the eve of each of his 
excursions, and returning, with an equal simplicity, he 
renders thanks "after supper in the little room where he 
kept his barometers." 

To the last Lavalle was a Catholic of the old school, 
accepting he who had looked into the very heart of the 
lightnings the dogmas of papal infallibility, of absolu- 

[76] 



REVIEWS 



tion, of confession of relics great and small. Mar- 
vellous enviable contradiction! 

The completion of the Tellurionical Records closed what 
Lavalle himself was pleased to call the theoretical side of 
his labours labours from which the youngest and least 
impressionable planeur might well have shrunk. He had 
traced through cold and heat, across the deeps of the 
oceans, with instruments of his own invention, over the 
inhospitable heart of the polar ice and the sterile visage 
of the deserts, league by league, patiently, unweariedly, 
remorselessly, from their ever-shifting cradle under the 
magnetic pole to their exalted death-bed in the utmost 
ether of the upper atmosphere each one of the Isocon- 
ical Tellurions Lavalle's Curves, as we call them to-day. 
He had disentangled the nodes of their intersections, 
assigning to each its regulated period of flux and reflux. 
Thus equipped, he summons Herrera and Tinsley, his 
pupils, to the final demonstration as calmly as though he 
were ordering his flighter for some midday journey to 
Marseilles. 

"I have proved my thesis," he writes. "It remains now 
only that you should witness the proof. We go to Manila 
to-morrow. A cyclone will form off the Pescadores S. 
17 E. in four days, and will reach its maximum intensity 
in twenty-seven hours after inception. It is there I will 
show you the Truth." 

A letter heretofore unpublished from Herrera to 
Madame Lavalle tells us how the Master's prophecy was 
verified. 

(To be continued.) 



[77] 



ADVERTISING SECTION 



MISCELLANEOUS 



WANTS 



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The Bee -Line Bookshop 

BELT'S WAY-BOOKS, giving town lights 
for all towns over 4.000 pop. as laid 
down by A. B. O. 

THE WORLD. Complete Z vols. Thin 
Oxford, limp back. 13s. 6d. 

BELT'S COASTAL ITINERARY. Shore 
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THE TRANSATLANTIC AND MEDI- 
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ARCTIC AEROPLANING. Siemens and 
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LAVALLE'S HEART OF THE 
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RIMINGTON'S PITFALLS IN THE 
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ANGELO'S DESERT IN A DHUGI- 
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VAUGHAN'S PLANE RACING IN 
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VAUGHAN'S HINTS TO THE AIR- 
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HOFMAN'S LAWS OF LIFT AND 
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DE VITRE'S THEORY OF SHIFTING 
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SANGER'S WEATHERS OF THE 
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SANGER'S TEMPERATURES AT 
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HAWKIN'S FOG AND HOW TO 
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VAN ZUYLAN'S SECONDARY 
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DAHLGREN'S AIR CURRENTS AND 
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REDMAYNE'S DISEASE AND THE 
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WALTON'S HEALTH RESORTS OF 
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MUTLOW'S HIGH LEVEL BACTERI- 
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HALLIWELL'S ILLUMINATED STAR 
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Zalinski's Standard Works . 

PASSES OF THE HIMALAYAS, 5s. 
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PASSES OF THE ROOKIES. Ss. 
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The four boxed, limp cloth, with 
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GRAY'S AIR CURRENTS IN MOUN- 
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APPLIANCES FOR AIR PLANES 



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AIR PLANES AND DIRIGIBLE GOODS 



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Plants are Mrift o is Death 
Piano are cheap so il Life 

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FOR SALE 

at the end of Season the following Bat-Boats : 

GRISELD A, 65 knt., 42 ft., 430 (nora.) Maginnis Motor, 

under-rake rudder. 
MABELLE, 50 knt., 40 ft., 310 Hargreaves Motor, 

Douglas' lock-steering gear. 
IVEMONA, 50 knt., 35 ft., 300 Hargrcaves (Radium 

accelerator), Miller keel and rudder. 

The above are well known on the South 
Coast as sound, wholesome knockabout boats, 
with ample cruising accommodation. Griselda 
carries spare set of Hofman racing vans and 
can be lifted three foot clear in smooth water 
with ballast-tank swung aft. The others do 
not lift clear of water, and are recommended 
for beginners. > 

Also, by private treaty, racing B. B. Tarpon 
( 76 .winning fltfgs) 13/ knt, 60 ft; Long- 
Davidson double under-rake rudder, new this 
season and unstrained. 850 nom. Maginnis 
motor, Radium relays and Pond generator. 
Bronze breakwater forward, and treble rein- 
forced forefoot and entry. Talfourd Cockered 
keel. Triple set of Hofman vans, giving maxi- 
mum lifting surface of 5327 sq. ft. 

Tarpon nas been lifted and held seven feet 
for two miles between touch and touch. 

Our Autumn List of racing and family Bats 
ready on the 9th January. 



AIR PLANES AND STARTERS 



Hinks's Moderator 



Monorail overhead starter 
for family and private planes 
up to twenty-five foot over ail 



Absolutely 
Safe 



Hinfo <& Co.. Birmingham 



J. D. ARDAGH 

I AM NOT CONCERNED WITH YOUR 'PLANE 
AFTER IT LEAVES MY GUIDES. BUT TILL 
THEN I HOLD MYSELF PERSONALLY 
RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR LIFE. SAFETY. AND 
COMFORT. MY HYDRAULIC BUFFER -STOP 
CANNOT RELEASE TILL THE MOTORS ARE 
WORKING UP TO BEARING SPEtD. THUS 
SECURING A SAFE AND GRACEFUL FLIGHT 
WITHOUT PITCHING, p . , . . . 

Remember our motto. "Upward and Outward, " and 
do not trust yourself to to -called "rigid" guide bars 

J. D. ARDAGH, BELFAST AND TURIN 



ACCESSORIES AND SPARES 



CHRISTIAN WR 



ESTABLIS 



Accessories 



Hooded Binnacles with dip-dials automatically 
recording change of level (illuminated face). 

All heights from 50 to 1 5.000 feet 2100 

With Aerial Board of Control certificate 3110 
Foot and Hand Foghorns; Sirens toned to 
any club note; with air-chest belt-driven 
from motor . . . . .680 

Wireless installations syntonised to A.B.C. 
requirements, in neat mahogany case, 
hundred mile range . . .330 

Grapnels,' mushroom anchors, pithing -irons, 
winches, hawsers, snaps, shackles and mooring ropes, 
for lawn, city, and public installations. 

Detachable under-cars, aluminum or stamped steel. 

Keeled under-cars for planes: single-action detach- 
ing-gear, turning car into boat with one motion of 
the wrist. Invaluable for sea trips. 

Head, side, and riding lights (by size) Nos. 00 to 
20 A.B.C. Standard. Rockets and fog-bombs in 
colour? and tones of the principal clubs (boxed). 

A selection of twenty 2176 

International night-signals (boxed) 1 116 



free 1hr 



ACCESSORIES AND SPARES 



IGHT & OLDIS 



HED 1924 



and Spares 



Spare generators guaranteed to lifting power 
marked on cover ( prices according to power ). 

Wind-noses for dirigibles Pegamoid, cane-stiff- 
ened, lacquered cane or aluminum and flux for 
winter work. 

Smoke-ring cannon for hail s"lorms,swivel mounted, 
bow or stem. 

Propeller blades : metal, tungsten backed; papier- 
mache; wire stiffened; ribbed Xylonite ( Nickson's 
patent ) ; all razor-edged ( price by pitch and 
diameter ). 

Compressed steel bow-screws for winter work. 

Fused Ruby or Commercial Mineral Co. bearings 
and collars. Agate-mounted thrust-blocks up to 4 inch. 

Magniac's bow-rudders (Lavalle's patent groov- 
ing). 

Wove steel beltings for outboard* motors (non- 
magnetic ). 

Radium batteries, all powers to 1 50 h.p. (in pairs). 

Helium batteries, all powers to 300 h. p. (tandem). 

Stun'sle brakes worked from upper or lower 
platform. 

Direct plunge-brakes worked from lower plat- 
form only, loaded silk or fibre, wind-tight. 

the Tlanel 



JjJJIDING SECT CIO 16 1981 



PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE 
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET 

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY 



IR Kipling, Rudyard 

lQ5k With the night mail 

79 
1909